Learn to be still
by Cyrrer
Summary: Sherlock's mind is never still   S/H


******Title:** Learn to be still **  
****Pairing:** Sherlock/John **  
****Rating:** PG13**  
****Warnings:** none **  
****Words**: 968**  
****Spoilers: **Some for A Study in Pink **  
****Disclaimer:** Not mine.**  
****Beta:** **zannabq**  


**Learn to be still**

As usual Sherlock's mind was in overdrive. Thoughts and snippets of his conversation with the serial killer fluttered through his brain, as if they were butterflies on speed. These were the moments Sherlock craved, the far too seldom milliseconds when his life wasn't boring at all.

It always had been this way. Nothing could make his mind stop; even the most intriguing kind of puzzle could only hold his interest for a short time. Even this brilliant serial killer who forced and tricked his victims into committing suicide wouldn't be on his mind for long.

There was nothing left to deduct from there. He knew that he chose the right pill, and the lab report would back him up on this. That was out of question. He might would find a new distraction by looking out for this Moriarty fellow. It could be fun to hunt for him. A guy who paid a serial killer to kill random people, what an interesting fan.

Almost lost in his many thoughts Sherlock didn't really acknowledge all the people around him. All those vacant minds who could never connect the dots like he did. Sometimes he really wondered what it must be like in their funny little brains. How would it be not being bored? To not think of million different things at the same time? How could they even exist being so mundane?

Sherlock had never understood how the so called normal people managed to live. He would rather take a pill from a serial killer, than be still. Not once in his life had his mind stopped spinning around. He always deduced, always questioned things. His mind was always high in the sky with lightning speed.

Lestrade was questioning him about the killer, and how the killer got killed. It was natural for Sherlock to answer him, without even focussing on the issue much. His mind had more fun thinking about ways to find this Moriarty, than to dwell on the shooter who saved his life.

But thinking of something different had never stopped Sherlock from showing Lestrade how wrong he was with his assessment. Of course they had enough to deduce who this shooter must be.

And so Sherlock started to rant and rave about handguns and shooting distance, and the fact that the shooter had high moral principles because he waited until Sherlock was in immediate danger before the shot. Clearly, a guy who was just an enemy of the cabby would have taken him down sooner.

"He must have had nerves of steel," Sherlock continued and his gaze suddenly focussed on John Watson, who stood calmly besides a police car, seemingly not bothered by anything.

It was like an epiphany for Sherlock. How could he have been so blind? How could he not have seen this? A smile went over his face. How very intriguing.

He stopped speaking to Lestrade and hurried over to John. Knowing his mood-swings the Inspector stayed behind, for which Sherlock was grateful. He couldn't be distracted right now. Not when life presented him with the greatest puzzles of all.

John Watson, this plain man, who was so amazingly different that Sherlock hadn't gotten bored by him yet, and now suspected he never would.  
John Watson, a man who didn't get put off by Sherlock's remarks, who adored him for his mind and who didn't try to stop him from being himself.

Nobody had accepted him like John before. Even Mycroft, who was in so many ways just like him, had never done that. Had become his friend and trustworthy companion and so much more so effortless.

Sherlock realized with sudden awe what it must have cost John to shoot that gun. To take a life. Yes, he was a soldier in so many ways, craving the adrenaline rush of the fight. But he also was a doctor, sworn to not harm anyone. And still he had saved Sherlock. Saved him from himself, when his bored mind got the better of him and he was about to swallow that damn pill.

How could you categorize such an enigma? The smile was back on Sherlock's face. He would never be able to deduce that. And in all of his life he'd never had such a wonderful thought.

Not only would he never get bored of this plain man, no he craved to be close to him. To be grounded by him. To be still.

He stood in front of John now, dazzled by the need to be close to him. He had never felt like this before, this gratitude, this belonging. Suddenly aware of the dozens of people around them Sherlock was at wits end about what to do. Even normal people had problems to express their feelings, didn't they? So how should he know?

John kept talking about the dreadful business and Sherlock could only answer with some hushed words. Sherlock wanted to go home, to make sure that John was ok. That he would not resent what he did to save him. That he would not resent Sherlock. And above all else, Sherlock just wanted to be comforted by John, to hear that everything would be alright and really believe it.

But how could he make John understand? Especially when he was so stunned and confused by all of this himself? Where was his brilliant mind now?

"I'm in shock, look I've got a blanket," was what he finally said. _Take me home. Take me in your arms and let me forget. Make me whole _was what he thought.

And John Watson proved to be brilliant once again. He looked with deep understanding in Sherlock's eyes, touched his arm soothingly and said, "Let's go home".

And for the first time in his life, Sherlock's mind was still.


End file.
